Of Children and Geniuses
by SherlockandJohn221B
Summary: Sherlock and John adopt a genius daughter, or so John thinks. Sherlock gets into a fight with Anderson about their daughter, leaving Sherlock at home with his "daughter" and a concussion, a leaving John to take care of him. But will Grace grow up to be just like her father figure, Sherlock? Read and find out!


**A/N: So... My friend told me to write her a story on fan fiction, and since she's pretty much the most adorable thing EVER, I had to relent. And so, here it is. The first story I've ever written about Sherlock, ironic, since it's my favorite show, but… Anyways, it's based off of the prompt "John and Sherlock adopt a genius kid" which really got my wheels turning. What sort of thing would happen if Sherlock found a miniature (and just as cute-I might add) version of himself? And what if John became a father? It was too cute for me to ignore, so here it is. **

**What would happen if John and Sherlock adopted a genius child and raised her as their own? This is the story of Grace Irene Holmes and how the highly-functioning sociopath and the military doctor set aside their differences to raised her.**

He said it was impossible, Sherlock. There was no logical reason to have drawn that conclusion. But, regardless of what was and wasn't possible, I knew. From the moment I saw her first- before she really was ours- at 9 months old, I knew that our child, our Grace, had inherited an amazing intellect from someone.

I don't know how I knew; maybe it was all of the time I had spent with Sherlock. Just observing; watching him "behave", lash out, read, focus, play violin, be unfathomably insensitive; be him... but I was right. She was…incredible. Her slightly mismatched hazel eyes were so alert, and so aware of everything going on around her._** Grace Irene Holmes. **_Her name, beautiful as is, didn't even begin to match her beauty, I thought.

_Sherlock and I had gotten to name her, when we first saw her, as we had already been approved for her adoption. We had been planning it out for weeks before she was born. (Correction-I had been planning it out for weeks before; Sherlock waited until the last minute to choose his portion of the name). We decided that we could each choose one of her names, but that they needed to be significant, to mean something._

_I chose Grace, as a meaningful farewell to my best friends throughout childhood, who had tragically been killed in a car accident about three years prior to my meeting of Sherlock. I had learned in a letter that was delivered to me when I was overseas. That was the first time I remember crying once getting there, as that was the first loss I had felt personally. In the weeks before Grace was born, I bothered Sherlock about his part, asking incessantly if he had chosen a name yet. Finally he snapped, his voice mounting as he rose and turned towards me, _

"_Irene. There you have it, John. After hearing about your precious Grace exactly two times a day, every day for the last two weeks, I have settled on Irene." He sat back down, and focused his strikingly blue eyes back on the microscope lenses. _

_I was in shock at Sherlock's sudden outburst. I knew that Irene was important to him; she had always been, but to name our child after a dominatrix? It seemed too out of line, too inappropriate, too foreshadowing. I would not accept the idea of my daughter- and then I stopped, and rolled those words around in my mouth. My daughter. Our daughter. The elation of that concept almost calmed my frustration with Sherlock. But then I realized how rash he had been in his response, and I understood that something, something in what I had said had set him off. I couldn't stand the ignorance, so I sat down across from him. _

"_Sherlock? Is everything alright? You seem a bit..." I paused, wanting to choose the right words so as not to offend him, "agitated by what I said. Can you…Could you possibly explain your reaction to me?" _

_I flinched as he straightened himself up from his previously hunched position of examination, and stared at me, his expression unchanging. _

"_It's you, John. You know that I want this child as much as you do, and yet you give me no time to think on my own. It's clear to me that you've had your mind made up about happy endings, and had expected for this to happen, but some of us do not always look for the good in life. I've been on cases, with you, and through them all, your steady stream of chatter never varies; 'Grace this' and "Grace that'. Did you ever stop and think that some of us don't care, and never did? We listened politely the first time, but after that we all stopped caring. "_

_I took these words like knives, each one a different wound in my heart, my mind racing with reasons and explanations and excuses. Finally, I achieved a response that I thought would cut him like his disparaging comment had done to me. _

"_Do you realize that people don't care about you?"_

_Almost immediately after the words left my mouth, I regretted it. Of course Sherlock knew. I was the one there to see the flash of hurt that came before the curtains of apathy veiled his eyes, after the first of many jabs in a day were directed towards him. Sherlock was so guarded because he knew that people didn't care about or for his sociopathic tendencies. And I, I of all people, should've known that. I started to try and fix this problem, before I got into it with him, but Sherlock left me no source of escape._

"_Sherlock, I'm-" _

"_No, John. You're right. No one cares, thus the reason we shouldn't be here, like this, together. I'll start packing up my things."_

"_But, Sherlock, you're wrong! I was wrong! People do care! I care, Lestrade cares, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft all care about you, Sherlock. I would never live with for this long, let alone adopt a child with, someone who I did not care about. I deeply regret my response to you; I was flushed and angry, and I therefore took the opportunity to throw an insult back at you. I sincerely apologize for the damage I know I've done. "_

_I was met with silence, and so I grudgingly accepted my fate and slunk into my bedroom. However, at two-o-clock in the morning, I awoke to someone pulling the covers up around me, since I had been shivering and after I turned, I saw the lanky shadow of the world's only consulting detective in my doorframe, and I was at peace with it-for once._

_A few weeks later, our daughter, Grace Irene, was born. We wouldn't get to take her home with us until she was at least a year old- that was the agreement we had signed with her birth mother. But we were allowed to visit her, when she was 9 months old, for the first time. We had been preparing our flat for her; I had cleaned out an entire one of Sherlock's "offices"-a room with numerous bookshelves, looking dangerously full of books, papers, case work, and other assorted items- for her nursery. I suppose I had thought it would be an easy job-"how hard can it be?"- But 6 hours later, with our rubbish cans full out by the street, I was starting to regret my decision._

_Grace's room was yellow and green; the walls exuded sunshine and the ceiling fresh grass in the spring. We had chosen the colors because they were our favorites-well, they were my favorites; Sherlock didn't care. _

I smiled as I thought back to those days, back before we knew for sure. And now, I smiled -painfully-at the sight of Sherlock asleep on the couch, with Irene curled up next to him. As I came closer to pull a blanket up over them, the wound on his forehead appeared too deep, and too harsh against his pale skin.

He had gained it because a passion that had come into him; one that I had never seen- even with cases- it overtook him when Anderson had been talking, no- in all truthfulness-complaining about him. Anderson had made some side comment about Sherlock becoming even more "squirrely" after Irene had come to live with us, and that perhaps she was a "freak" too, and I saw the wall of stoicism crumble in his eyes. They flashed an even stormier blue/grey than normal and he stormed over to Anderson, as I backed away, determined not to play a part in the violence that I knew was coming.

"_What _did you just say?" The look in Anderson's face quickly turned from frightened to slightly amused as he realized that he had found a new button to push; a new lever to pull, in Sherlock that would bring forth a reaction; an uncommon occurrence for the consulting detective.

"I _said_, 'Maybe the girl will be a freak like him. Or maybe even a psychopath- that would be fitting wouldn't it?' Donovan was merely agreeing with me."

Pure fury flashed across his face, and perhaps, I realize as I think back, if Anderson wasn't so content with himself for infuriating Sherlock, he would've noticed sooner. As it was, he didn't seem to notice until Sherlock's fist had collided with his lower jaw; doubling him over in pain, as he cried out.

"What the…? When did…? LESTRADE!" Anderson called, as he attempted to land a hit on Sherlock, missing repeatedly. He would've been an awful soldier, I remember noting, his tactic seemed to be just swing and duck; then straighten and swing again. Finally, he caught Sherlock, hard across the forehead, and the edge of his ring (whatever reason he was wearing it- I don't know) cut into the skin above Sherlock's eyes, sending blood down across his face.

At this point, Lestrade entered and pulled Anderson away from Sherlock, and asked me what had happened. Easily enough, I recounted the necessary details and finally after what seemed like too long, I was able to attend to Sherlock. I had been watching him out of the corner of my eye, and it had seemed as if, at one point, he had lost consciousness. I quickly rushed over to where he was sitting, oddly enough, with his head between his knees.

"Sherlock, are you… I mean… Is there… Is everything alright?" I asked with hesitation, not wanting to know the answer, and yet intrigued by the actions of my companion.

"John, I hit Anderson. Do you know how many times I have imagined doing that, and yet restrained myself from that foolish action because of all of the repercussions that I knew would follow from it? And now I've gone and ruined it all. I've made a fool out of myself, and… John, did you know I was..." he reached up to touch his forehead, still rather slick with blood, "correction- did you know I'm bleeding?"

I sighed and waited for him to look at my face. I needed to examine his pupils, to make my educated guess about whether or not he had a concussion, which it already seemed that he did. I decided to try a different approach, seeing as he was looking everywhere in the room except for at me.

"Sherlock," I called, "it's been a long couple of days. Let's go home, and we can help Lestrade tomorrow", I said after I silently confirmed with Lestrade that our leaving was okay. I watched Sherlock stand up, and was at a near enough distance to him to support him when he began to fall back down.

"John" he said softly, as if he didn't want Lestrade or anyone else to hear. I was about to respond when I heard the rest of his sentence.

"John", he had said, "take me home", and then he went limp in my arms, worrying me for a minute. But then I realized that the combination of his lack of sleep and the obvious concussion he had just received had been too much for even him, and so his body had shut down; gone into sleep mode. And now I had to figure out what to do with him. I didn't want to drag him out to the street unconscious, and then try and call a cab for us both. That just wouldn't do. So instead I waited where I was, and decided to set Sherlock down on the ground, propped up against a wall like he was sitting; and then to sit next to him. I gave the younger man a hug, hoping that perhaps he would feel my presence and choose to wake; but he didn't, and while the doctor in me told me that it was better off this way and that he needed the rest, the human part of me told me that I wanted him awake and there with me. Such a strange feeling, I had never experienced one quite like it.

Then I glanced at my watch. It was 7:30, Grace's bedtime was in half an hour, and I was sitting here with Sherlock, praying to god that he would wake up soon.

"Lestrade", I finally called, "can you watch Sherlock for a minute? I need to call a cab for us before Mrs. Hudson gets worried." Lestrade obliged, and soon enough Sherlock and I were seated (and slumped) in the back of a London cab, heading towards two hundred and twenty-one b baker street.

When we arrived home it was 8:15. Traffic had been bad, and I was feeling more and more anxious with every minute that passed with Sherlock asleep. I knew I would have to check on him every two hours or so, to make sure he didn't slip into anything as serious as a coma, but in the meantime, I decided to let him be. Mrs. Hudson had greeted us at the door, and had helped me get Sherlock upstairs and onto the couch; I hadn't wanted to put him in his room, because I knew what sort of disaster zone that would be. As I started to get myself ready for a long night, I felt a tugging on my jumper and looked down to see Grace's bright red hair and violet eyes staring up at me.

"Daddy," she asked, "is Mr-Uncle-Daddy-Sherlock okay? He seems as if he might not be feeling well. Maybe I should play the piano for him." She began to trot away, happy with her idea of healing her other guardian by playing him a song, and had almost reached the door to her room when I called back for her.

"Gracie, honey, I think his head hurts very much right now, and he might like it if we all just went to bed and then maybe tomorrow you can play him some music, how does that sound?" Grace stared up at me like I was insane.

"I know he has a concussion, daddy, he's exhibiting near perfect symptoms, and I read that sometimes if you play…erm…what was the word?… pacifying music for someone with a headache that sometimes it can help to alleviate their pain."

And that was it. My entire theory since we had first taken her home was proven. No normal five year old was capable of such a broad range of words. We hadn't even begun the chapter book stage with her in our readings (that I had known of, which led me to question what Sherlock had been reading when I was not present), so where in the world had she read these words? And how was she using them correctly? I decided that as soon as Sherlock had gotten past this concussion, he and I would have a talk about his life and childhood, so I could compare the two, because at the moment, everything was fitting perfectly into place, but I needed to make sure I was right.

**A/N: So…What did you think? I got a bit sidetracked in posting this, it was supposed to be up last week, but I had my exams and all… still have some left for this week too, but I was really excited about putting this up. Please, please, please, tell me what you think, what you like, what you don't like… Anything, to let me know that this story isn't invisible****! PMs are always acceptable, as are the reviews that I already requested, and… Yeah! Hope you liked it!**


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